Assassin's Creed: Troubled Times
by Gib1997
Summary: Belfast, Northern Ireland. Sixteen years after the Templars' Great Purge, the Brotherhood has been somewhat rebuilt in the area. A core group of three have attained an Animus, and are peering into the recent past to see what they can find. Perhaps they've underestimated the tiny country's significance.


Assassin's Creed: Troubled Times

The city seemed quite peaceful at night, but one can say that anywhere does. The streetlights glimmered while in the distance the seemingly unending blaze glared on, like a beast descending upon a barren land. I removed the phone from my pocket. Sixteen minutes past one in the morning, thirteenth of July. And yet, the light shone on, but that's a far too romanticised way of putting it.

This place never changes. Wait. Perhaps that's negligent. We've come a long way, depending on your perspective. No longer must one fear walking into an open street in the city, nor must we remain within our respective 'sides' in our society. Yet, some choose to. Some commit their souls to the praise of a flag, an idea, a monarch, and no one is quite sure as to why, but one doesn't dare ask. And while the people scream, cry and bleed in the streets, the high and mighty sit in their grand temple atop the hill, speaking of representation but apathetic to the situation around them. To those given power by the people, the people were a statistic.

This is unlikely to end any time soon. As ragged flags shaded me from the moonlight, I wondered if we were always intended to be this way, fighting for eternity of the most trivial of things. But part of me wants to believe that we can change, part of me has to. Every journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, after all. I laughed sarcastically at my own forced sentiment. It was time for me to leave, get back to work. Belfast can rest, or riot all night for all I care at this point.

"So, who's winning?" David spoke with that strange concoction of arrogance and sarcasm, yet you could always tell he meant no harm, but as always, Naomi grimaced at him.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Awk lighten up babe, was only a joke, have we not had enough to be stern about today?"

"Don't call me babe, you arsehole. Now is not the time to be joking, we've finally got something worth doing. It's taken us sixteen years to finally bring the Brotherhood up to standard in Belfast again, and if we're not careful, what's to prevent us being caught up in another 'Great Purge' from those bastards?"

"Fine, I'll just be quiet and not interrupt, your highness. Regardless, how was your night, Patrick? Wait, is it Bill? Seamus? Gordon? Conor? I can never quite remember which you use."

Naomi and I both glared this time. Names were oddly important here. It was a signal to whether you were one of 'us' or one of 'themmuns'. Perhaps not forever, but certainly now. I relaxed my stare.

"Aye, 'twas fine. It always lasts for a few days. The water and the fire seemed to be in equal measures. Oh, and there was a nice breeze."

I removed my torn jacket, dragging across the gash in my arm. Naomi sighed sharply before grasping my arm. She stared at me with her strange eyes; they were brown, but they always seemed to glow. Her concern was appreciated; it was an oxymoron to the total indifference to human emotion I'd seen tonight. I hugged her tightly. She stepped backwards, looked at me, and returned to the computer. Being an Assassin allows one to avoid many things; however that seemingly does not include social awkwardness.

"Alright, we're just about ready here. Patrick, you're up."

I frowned. We'd heard about these before. We'd read about them. We'd been lectured on them. But we've never used one. I lied down upon the makeshift machine, and felt the rather distracting metal appendages holding me in place.

"Tell me again why _I _am the one to have to do this?"

Naomi glanced at me. "You know why. My grandparents were moderates, and David's were rather deprived nationalists. In short, they did fuck all. But you, you're our little enigma." She smirked and ruffled my hair.

"Buy a puppy for Christ sake."

"Oh so he can make a joke and I can't? Rude. Anyway, we don't know where you came from. An orphan is so intriguing. Your parents could have been extremists, or perhaps something else. All we know is, when you were found, you were clutching your necklace. Coincidence? I believe not."

I glanced at the necklace. The rusted, curved metal didn't shimmer as much as it once did, yet the mystery it held was diminished to no extent. For me, at least. A tiny Assassin insignia on a leather chain. No explanation. She was right, a coincidence was nigh on impossible. David chuckled.

"We're only looking back to the late sixties. There's been no particularly famous Northern Irish Assassins as of yet, so you can't really expect an Ezio Auditore. Maybe a guy a little like that Kenway one."

"Connor?"

"No, Edward, he knew how to get pissed. He'd fit in well here.

"If you boys are done, the Animus is ready. I've found a guy in January 1969, but the software doesn't seem to give a clear picture of who he is. Or what he is, more importantly. You're nineteen, so perchance we're looking at a grandfather. Let's go."

I looked at them both affirmatively. I nodded, and we began. Buttons were pressed, noises were heard. I felt tired, and as the glass panel covered my eyes, I saw a bright light. Ironic really. A bright light throwing me into the past of Northern Ireland.

John looked up. It was a cold day. The marchers approached Burntollet, and any idiot could tell what was going to happen. He looked at a window opposite him, seeing only his reflection. A light brown trench coat flowed to his ankles, the delicate fabric was moving softly in the breeze. Underneath, a hoodie of various materials and colours. The soft brown and blue warmed his skin, while the rough white hood peaked out from the coat's collar and covered his head. In case that wasn't quite enough, a grey mask covered the bottom half of his face. The sleeves of the coat were unusually large, as if there was something beneath worth hiding. Enough vanity, it's time to move.


End file.
